


The Sparkly Dance Nazi

by Cleo_Jay



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, Rampant musical prejudice, Stereotypes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-03
Updated: 2010-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-14 21:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2204478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Jay/pseuds/Cleo_Jay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bradley discovers Colin doing terrible but oddly mesmerising things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sparkly Dance Nazi

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in the 2010 round at merlin_muses for Prompt #225 on LJ. Despite the following, I do not actually wish to disparage anyone’s musical taste (or lack thereof ;D) or any national identities – this is all firmly tongue-in-cheek (so to speak), so please do not take offence!  
> Betaed by the ever-wonderful dysonrules.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is 100% fiction, sadly has nothing at all to do with the actual Colin Morgan or Bradley James, and is not intended to cause offence.

 

‘This’, Bradley thought, ‘was _brilliant_.’ He hoisted his handheld camera higher for a better angle as he watched Colin execute a surprisingly well-coordinated spin, stifling any possible juvenile snickering with his other hand.   
  
Colin had a reputation, quite clearly unjustified in Bradley’s opinion, for being the cooler one. The artier one. The one with better musical taste. This little gem was going to blow all that rubbish clear out of the water. As soon as he’d uploaded it to YouTube.  
  
He mentally debated immediate exposure of Colin’s…peccadillo (Bradley giggled internally) versus a lengthy period of blackmail before exposure, just as a breathily high-pitched refrain of ‘Baby, baby, baby, ooooh’ wafted past his (now-traumatised) ears.  
  
He’d originally shown up at Colin’s door with the intention of pranking Angel again. He’d even brought a small French dictionary so they could compose something slightly more accurate than ‘Je suis loser’ this time. The sounds of pop music – actual cheesy _pop music_ – emanating through the wood had stopped him in his tracks. His first thought had been Katie – well, no, his first thought had actually been alien abduction – but his second (and slightly more rational) thought had been Katie. Mainly because she liked trashy things like sparkly vampires and awful music, and was fiendishly evil when pranking them back. Which is why they only targeted Angel nowadays. Only true Katie-level Evil would tie Colin to a chair in his room (Bradley’s mind supplied the images surprisingly easily, as if they’d always been there), and force him to listen to that sort of garbage on repeat.   
  
Bradley had decided that a heroic rescue was in order before the torture made his poor friend lose what little mind he had, and so had used the keycard Colin had given him to quietly ease open the door. And had then felt his jaw drop in shock.  
  
Colin – poor, sweet, tortured Colin – was, in fact, enjoying said torture. He was also (sadly) not tied down but instead shimmying, in his boxers and t-shirt, to the chorus of ‘Somebody to Love’ by the infamous Canadian chipmunk. And there was not even a Katie in sight to blame. Bradley was utterly gobsmacked and watched in horrified fascination as his blatantly tasteless friend shook his arse to the beat and sang into a hairbrush. Bradley hadn’t even known Colin _owned_ a hairbrush. The betrayal he’d felt in this sudden knowledge was overwhelming.  
  
Finally, as Usher (the traitor) warbled about spending his last dime, Bradley’s brain clicked into gear and he dragged his eyes away from Colin’s gyrating posterior to the video camera in his hand. What a lucky, lucky coincidence. No Angel-humiliation would be recorded (again) this fine evening – he had bigger Irish fish to fry. Bradley’s grin grew wicked as he raised his hand, aimed the lens and hit 'Record'.  
  
Five minutes later, Colin still hadn’t noticed Bradley lurking in the doorway, and Bradley had enough footage to hit box office gold. He was also beginning to fear for his sanity. An overabundance of Bieber-caterwauling, in combination with the sway of Colin’s arse, had lulled him into some sort of trance. Only the wrist ache he was getting from holding the camera aloft stood between him and complete brainwashing. Thankfully, he was a bit of a wuss about such things and so he decided to prevent any permanent wrist injury (which would have had a tragic effect on his ‘Me’ time) by interrupting Colin’s rhythm with a loud and particularly obnoxious throat-clearing.  
  
He watched as Colin spun around in shock, dropping the hairbrush, catching his elbow on the desk and his socked foot on a discarded magazine, before falling heavily and spectacularly onto his behind with a yelp.  
  
Colin stared up at Bradley in horror; blue eyes wide, cheeks flushed and pink mouth slightly open. Then he winced slightly and retrieved the hairbrush from where he’d landed on it.  
  
“B…Bradley! What are you doing here?”   
  
Bradley hefted the camera into Colin’s sightline, grinning hugely.  
  
“Obtaining excellent blackmail material, apparently.”  
  
Colin paled and then, as if just realising it was still playing, quickly reached up and hit ‘pause’ on his iPod. Blessed silence fell, and Bradley sent a mental thank you to any deities that might be listening in (he figured they’d probably been traumatised enough by now, too).  
  
“You… How long have you _been_ in here?”  
  
Bradley looked smug. “Long enough,” he said, then muttered crossly, “Long enough to be completely mortified on your behalf.”  
  
Colin was beginning to look annoyed, though still flushed in embarrassment.  
  
“Morti…mortified? What bloody right do you have to judge? So what if I like Justin Bieber? I’ve seen your iPod, Bradley, so you can’t talk!”  
  
“My iPod has a fine catalogue of decent…”  
  
Colin cut him off. “You have Meatloaf next to Miley Cyrus, Bradley. Your musical taste is hardly above reproach.”  
  
“The ‘Bat Out of Hell’ album trilogy is quality American rock, _actually_ ,” he responded sniffily.  
  
“Thank you for proving my case so completely, you total idiot.”  
  
Bradley rallied quickly from the slur on his impeccable music acumen.  
  
“This is all beside the point. You like baby-Bieber, the original Evil Sparkly Dance Nazi! And you own a hairbrush!”  
  
“What’s my hairbrush got to do with…no, you know what, I don’t want to know what goes on in that tiny mind of yours, you lunatic. And Justin’s not evil, he’s a good singer.”  
  
“He is evil. He’s Canadian.”  
  
“Canadian’s aren’t evil, you prat!”  
  
“Oh, yeah? How do you explain Celine Dion then? Huh? That’s pure unadulterated screeching evil right there! And – surprise, surprise – another Canadian!”  
  
“I can’t even…” Colin looked up at the ceiling despairingly, “How do you even battle this level of sheer idiocy?” He looked back to Bradley with a patient air. “Bradley, I hate to tell you this, but not all Canadians are evil. Same as how not all Irish people have pet leprechauns… D’you remember that conversation?”  
  
“Two words. Alanis. Morrisette. Case proved. And I’m still not sure you weren’t lying to me about the leprechauns. I think you’re being selfish with your lucky charms.”  
  
Colin let out a bark of laughter, then looked Bradley up and down with a grin. “So, you _are_ after my lucky charms, after all!”  
  
Bradley blushed. “Don’t be stupid, Col. I’m trying to save you from a fate worse than death here. Brainwashing is the first stage in the Bieber-fever campaign of world domination. Soon, you’ll be sporting a stupid haircut – whoops, too late – and talking like a middle-class, suburban version of an American rapper. Either that or screaming like a Belieber every time you catch a glimpse of someone, in all likelihood a girl, who looks vaguely like baby-Bieber. This has to stop before it goes too far. I’m intervening. _This_ ,” he gestured at himself wildly, “is an intervention.”  
  
“Ooookay. I’ll consider myself intervened upon. But, just so you know, he’s really not that bad. His music’s kind of sweet and he seems like a nice guy.”  
  
“He is a demon! A girly-faced, high-pitched, brainwashing demon! He used his fans to cyberbully someone! People have voted to send him to North Korea! There is a Facebook petition to bring back Bob Marley & to give baby-Bieber in return! See the light, Col! See the light, before it’s too late and you become one of them!”  
  
“Katie’s been making you read Twilight again, hasn’t she? You always get melodramatic when you read trashy novels.”  
  
“You know what? I am going to force you, through the power of public humiliation, to repent your unhealthy obsession.” With those final words, Bradley flounced out of the room.  
  
“Wha…Bradley? Where are you going with that video camera??! Bradley!”  
  
Colin ran after his co-star, yelling slightly frantically, and rounded the corner into Bradley’s room in time to see him open his laptop with the memory card from his video camera in one hand. Colin took the only logical course of action and dived on top of him, knocking them both to the floor.  
  
“Owww, Col! That hurt! And you’re too boney to be jumping on people unexpectedly – you nearly kneed me in the crown jewels!”  
  
Colin continued to scrabble fruitlessly at Bradley’s hand, which was closed tightly around his prize. “Give me that… bloody… thing!”  
  
“No! Not until you admit that the reason you’re so desperate to have it is because you’re ashamed! Ashamed of your dirty habit!”  
  
“Shut up, Bradley! I just don’t want half the internet seeing me in my bloody boxers! Now, give it!”  
  
“I reckon more than half would want to see _this_!” Bradley crowed cheerily.  
  
“Pervert!” Colin yelled indignantly.  
  
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting?” came a smooth voice from the doorway, freezing both combatants instantly in fear.  
  
“What,” Katie smiled predatorily, as Angel looked over her shoulder in amusement, “sort of dirty habit could Colin have possibly performed in only his underwear, I wonder? And why would Bradley have been so eager to record it?” Angel snickered.  
  
“Uhhhh….” Colin stuttered, before rolling quickly off Bradley, suddenly painfully aware of his lack of clothing and the compromising position they’d been found in. He blushed and focused on Katie’s feet, encased in blue bunny slippers.  
  
“Clearly, it’s none of your business, McGrath,” Bradley said huffily, before quailing at one raised dark eyebrow. “It’s not important, anyway.”  
  
“I think I’ll be the judge of that. Hand over the porn, Bradley.”  
  
“It’s not por…”  
  
“Now, Bradley. Unless you’d like me to reveal exactly how often you check out Colin’s ‘lucky charms’ on set?”  
  
Bradley rapidly handed over the memory card, blushing as he realised Colin was staring at him in bemusement. He looked away quickly, but turned back when he caught Katie winking at Colin surreptitiously. He stared at them suspiciously. Come to think of it, Colin seemed surprisingly okay with him handing over ‘the evidence’ to Evil McGrath. Unfortunately, before he could follow that train of thought to any sort of conclusion, the moment was over and Katie was leaving.  
  
“Thank you, boys. You’ve provided Angel and me with plenty of amusement for the evening. Goodnight.”  
  
“Night!” Angel waved cheerily with a wide grin as she followed Katie out of the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
Bradley quickly got up off the floor and attempted to look busy with his laptop, but turned at a tug on his shirt and found himself nose to nose with his co-star.  
  
“Soooooo,” Colin inquired with a shy smile, “How often _do_ you check me out on set?”

  



End file.
